My Life Without You
by clarinet-alto-4ever
Summary: Friendship is tested after a case when John can't control his temper and walks out on Sherlock.  Rated T for mild language and brief semi-graphic mention of murder.  One-shot bromance  not slash .


A/N: I have recently become terribly obsessed with this TV show. I think it's absolutely brilliant. I've begun reading some of the fanfiction on this site and loved a lot of it (scopesmonkey's series is wonderful if you haven't read it yet). I decided to try my hand at it, and, as I usually do, start off a new genre with a one shot, usually a songfic, just to be introduced to the characters. With that being said, since I can't reprint the lyrics, imagine Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You" as the soundtrack music to this one shot. Furthermore, I'm not British, so please forgive any Americanisms that have crept in here.

Rated T for mild language and brief semi-graphic images of murder.

_John Watson paid the cabbie and rushed through the rain to the door of 221B Baker Street trying to avoid getting wet. It didn't matter too much, however, as he was drenched by the time he got there. He removed his jacket and hung it up to dry before turning to the stairs that led up to the most difficult and infuriating man he had ever met._

*_first verse, first stanza_*

Their last fight had been the worst one they'd ever had, especially seeing as how it culminated in John being gone for the last two months. It had been the catalyst provoking John and Sarah to decide to move in together. They'd been dating for a good six months before John walked out on Sherlock, and the two had thought it was the most logical next move.

It had seemed to be domestic bliss. Everything was going smoothly until Sarah starting dropping more and more obvious hints that she wanted to get married. A bridal magazine left here, a conversation about wedding colors with her sister overheard there. It was the most reasonable next stage in their relationship and so John began the search for an engagement ring.

It was a chilly Saturday afternoon when he first went out in search of the perfect ring. The cab ride to the shopping district was a rather short and boring one, until the sound of sirens coming from behind them snapped John from watching the buildings go by. He instinctively reached for his phone to look for a text from Sherlock before realizing that the detective was most likely _not_ going to be contacting him. Pangs of guilt, resentment, and sadness shot through him like the sirens screeching in their ears and he was thrown back to that last fight.

_*first verse, second stanza_*

It had been after a particularly grisly murder in which Sherlock had looked like a schoolboy during Christmas the whole time. John had almost gotten used to it over the past year or so, but something about this one had really bugged him. Maybe it was because it was a soldier who had been framed as having committed suicide but was really murdered by another of his squad seeking revenge upon him. It had hit John close to home due to the errant thoughts of suicide that used to cross his mind right after his return home from Afghanistan. Through therapy and the distraction of cases with Sherlock, he had slowly learned to deal with those feelings and with even more time they had completely crept from his mind. Nevertheless, seeing his army brothers in such a situation pulled at his heartstrings like no other case had before.

To see Sherlock treat it with the same heartlessness as every other case had triggered something in John's moral center that he could no longer shut in a mental drawer and ignore. He managed to conceal his feelings over the case until Sherlock had solved it, and then all hell had broken loose back at Baker Street that evening.

John was hesitating on how to broach the subject. Sherlock was oblivious to his dilemma until John ignored his request for tea. It was unlike John to not acquiesce to making tea for the pair and therefore Sherlock took a closer look at his flatemate.

"John, something seems to be troubling you," he stated with blatant matter-of-fact-ness.

John shook his head in exasperation. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. How ever did you figure that one out?"

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, having in more recent months begun picking up on sarcasm and rhetorical questions. He therefore said nothing and merely waited for John to continue.

John ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, "It's just, I'm not sure how much longer I can deal with your lack of human emotion concerning the dead bodies – _people_ – that we encounter in your cases. I know you said that people are dying and do die every day, but I just don't understand how you can't show any emotion whatsoever about these people. They have family and friends you know."

The doctor looked over at the detective and looked for some hint that what he had said had moved Sherlock at all. A blank stare was all that greeted his eyes.

"I'm not trying to change you or anything," John continued, "I'm just trying to understand . . ."

That's where Sherlock interrupted him. "No, you are trying to change me. I told you the very first time we met about some of my idiosyncrasies and by the time the cabbie murder was solved you had to have known, even with your limited capacity for understanding, how I feel about cases. I am not a naturally emotional person and I detach from that aspect of a case to be more efficient in solving them."

John had held in his temper through the whole conversation, but yet another slap at his intelligence was the last straw. "I'm trying to understand you, Sherlock! What if it wasn't some stranger that you had never met before? What if it was Lestrade's body splayed on the concrete or Mycroft on a shore, his face blue after drowning?" John knew he ought to shut his mouth, but the words just kept pouring out. "What if it was my pool of blood surrounding my stabbed body? Then what? Would you still analyze the environment with your same cool and collected logic? Would not even the slightest hint of emotion betray your true feelings for us? Or are there none? Are we merely the people who find these cases for you and provide little bits of information that you can't be bothered with looking up yourself?" John was breathing heavily now and his heart was racing with the adrenaline from the fight racing through his veins.

Sherlock held his steady gaze with John's pleading one. The doctor could see the wheels turning in the detective's head, but when he didn't produce an answer in a time that seemed reasonable to John, he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and turned for the door.

"I can't deal with this anymore, Sherlock. I'm going out." John grabbed his keys and coat and headed for the door.

"Shall I expect you back later this evening or tomorrow?" Sherlock asked without even a shake in his voice.

John hesitated. "I'm not even sure you can expect me back in either of those time frames." And without so much as a 'goodbye' he stalked off into the night.

If he had looked back, he would have noticed the rare look of shock and pain quickly flash by Sherlock's face.

_*chorus_*

John shook the memory from his mind and before he knew it he was in the shopping district. He paid the cabbie and headed off for the nearest jewelry store. He looked around while the staff were all busy, trying to figure out the different kinds of diamonds and gold there were. White gold, yellow gold? Carets, cuts, and color? By the time somebody came over to help him, he was thoroughly confused.

Thankfully, the worker was very knowledgeable and even without bothering to look around elsewhere, managed to sell John a beautiful, if not a little expensive, engagement ring for Sarah.

He went home that day feeling quite proud of himself and began planning the perfect moment to pop the question to Sarah. However, the ring burned a hole in his pocket. Every scenario he thought up was tarnished when he thought of the fact that Sherlock probably wouldn't be around for the announcement, or for the wedding, or for anything else in his life.

It hadn't been easy the past couple of months. Sherlock had texted and called in vain for about the first week, then left a final voicemail telling John that he had tried and would no longer bother John unless he came to Sherlock. It had pained John deeply, but he couldn't reconcile Sherlock's heartlessness within himself. However, he did know that he missed Sherlock terribly.

He feared for a while that he was having subconscious homosexual feelings towards his former best friend, but when he imagined the actual concept of a romantic relationship with a man, he was quite certain that could not be the case. Nevertheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing in his life that Sarah was just not fulfilling. Sure, the sex was great, they got along quite well, and he thoroughly enjoyed her company, but something was off. Mycroft's words often haunted his dreams. "_You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it."_

That must have been it. He missed the thrill and excitement life with Sherlock gave him, chasing criminals through the streets of London. He missed the cutting and witty comments that passed his lips at every turn. He missed trading insults with Anderson and Donovan, Lestrade's blank looks when Sherlock jumped from facts to conclusions that made absolute sense when he walked the rest of the force through it, and even sweet Mrs. Hudson who was always bugging them about when they were going to enter a civil partnership and adopt a little baby that she could spoil.

But was this enough to take him back to the coldness at the heart of Sherlock Holmes?

_*Second verse, first stanza*_

John wasn't sure if it was Lestrade's call or Sarah's tears that prompted him to go back to Baker street, but between the two, he knew he had to.

John had stupidly left the ring in his jacket pocket one evening and thrown in carelessly over the back of a chair. When Sarah went to hang it up, it had fallen out in plain sight. Before John could protest her opening it, she had clicked it open to reveal the ring he had picked out weeks ago. Her face immediately brightened and she looked up at him with such joy in her face as she said yes over and over again that John's stomach plummeted when he realized that he couldn't do this.

She ran over to embrace him in a hug and kiss him until she noticed John's complete lack of response. His eyes had glazed over as he imagined the rest of his life with Sarah – and without Sherlock.

He couldn't do it. Every flash of the future wasn't right without his best friend. Even considering the prospect of fixing his relationship with Sherlock and still living with and marrying Sarah didn't work. John knew she had had difficulty with dealing with his schedule of all hours in working cases with Sherlock, and, furthermore, he had never seen her happier than in the last couple of months when he _hadn't_ been gone at all hours of the day.

"John?" Sarah asked quietly with concern evident in her voice. "Is something wrong?"

John hesitated again. "It's just . . . I've realized that I really need to fix my friendship with Sherlock."

Sarah gave him a blank stare. "You're telling me that as we get engaged, you're thinking about _Sherlock_?" Her voice jumped up an octave in frustration.

"Yes," John admitted, "I believe I am."

Sarah stalked out of the room.

John shook his head and pulled out his phone which had been ringing constantly through that whole incident. Lestrade's name flashed on the screen. He hesitated before answering, but then realized that it must be quite the emergency if Lestrade had tried calling five times in the last thirty minutes.

"John Watson."

"John! Geoff Lestrade here. Haven't seen you about in awhile." John noticed that his chipper tone of voice sounded a bit fake.

"No, Sherlock and I took a different turn in life, I guess you could say." John trailed off and let it hang in the air.

"I've noticed," Geoff responded gruffly, his fake perkiness long gone from his voice. "I called Holmes in on a case about a couple of weeks ago. We hit a cold spot and he said that we had to wait for the murderer's next move. Well, he made the next move, but I couldn't get a hold of him at all. I sent officers down to his flat, but he either didn't answer or refused to answer them and the landlady has been out of town." John inhaled sharply. Had Sherlock finally done something so stupid that he had injured himself? Geoff continued, "I dropped by myself just now. He actually answered the door for me," John exhaled in relief, "and I haven't seen him look this bad since way before he met you. He's lost at least ten pounds, is paler and gaunter than a ghost, and told me to never again contact him with a case. Then, he slammed the door in my face and wouldn't say another word to me."

A silence fell upon the line until John finally broke it. "Why are you calling me about this, Geoff?"

"Damn it, John. I know you two had problems a couple of months ago, but you're the only person I've ever met that can actually get through to him. He hasn't been the same since you left. This last case did something to him and I need you to figure out what it was and fix it so he can solve this for me."

John smirked a bit at this. Sherlock was always right about the police's inadequacy at some cases, but the smirk didn't last long. What was it about this case that had caused the detached detective to act even more aloof than usual? "What was the case, Geoff?"

The inspector didn't answer right away. "It was a little closer to home than most of our cases, John. Donovan's cousin, whom she was very close to apparently, was brutally murdered. It didn't seem to be a personal killing, but rather a serial one, but Sally took it pretty hard. We tried to keep her from working on the case, but she insisted on helping find the killer. She did her job just fine, but she was a little emotional on the scene. I guess something about that hit Sherlock differently than the normal cases we deal with."

John was speechless for at least a minute or two. Had he really reached Sherlock with his speech all that time ago? "Thanks, Geoff. I'll see what I can do."

John left a hurried note to Sarah saying he was sorry and they would talk things out when he got back. He hailed a cab and soon found himself at the bottom of the staircase leading to 221B Baker Street.

_*bridge*_

He found it rather difficult to climb the relatively short distance between where he stood and the door at the top of the stairs. Was he doing the right thing? Sherlock was completely right when he said he wasn't about to change quite a significant part of his basic personality, but the more John thought about it, he realized that it was not his place to do so. If he were a true friend, he would accept Sherlock the way he was – sociopathic faults and all.

With this now firmly resolved in his mind he took the stairs two at a time and before he could change his mind had knocked on the door.

He held his breath as he waited for an answer. None came, so he knocked a little more forcefully. After still no response, he shouted, "Sherlock, it's me, John."

A crash followed his announcement, and after a few seconds, footsteps made their way slowly to the door. The door swung open to reveal Sherlock in a state the likes of which John had never seen him. It was all John could do to not obviously gasp in shock. Lestrade was definitely not exaggerating in his description, and John even wondered if he had been sugar coating it a little bit for John's sake.

Sherlock was so skinny, John thought he could see his ribs protruding through the shirt he was wearing. Black circles were blatantly apparent underneath his eyes. John thought that a person couldn't be any paler without being an Albino, until now. Sherlock's face was truly like a ghost and he almost seemed to be unable to stand up he was shaking so badly from lack of nutrition.

John barely knew where to begin, but cautiously made his way into the flat and closed the door behind him. "Sherlock, what happened? What have you done to yourself?"

The detective avoided his former flat mate's gaze. "I don't see how that is any of your business anymore."

John cringed. He knew he probably deserved that, but it didn't make it any easier to hear. "Sherlock . . . I knew I haven't been the best of friends these past few months . . ."

"Best of friends, John? You abandoned me. Ignored my every call and text for two months. Even my enemies don't do that."

Another blow to John's heart, but he had to persevere. "I was wrong, Sherlock. Terribly wrong. Probably the worst mistake of my life kind of wrong. I realized that and I've come to make amends if you'll let me."

There was a painfully long silence and again John saw the wheels in Sherlock's mind turning. He held his tongue this time and patiently waited it out.

"Sally Donovan's cousin was murdered a few weeks ago," Sherlock finally stated. John nodded, inviting him to continue. "Lestrade called me onto the case and I accepted it like I always do since it had at least slightly interesting circumstances. Didn't think much of the victim until I saw the silent tears constantly pouring down Sally's face." John blanched a bit when Sherlock called the sergeant Sally instead of Donovan. It showed just how much this had affected him. "Then, everything you had said to me came flooding back and it was all I could do from that point on through the entire case to not imagine your body laying there instead."

John opened and shut his mouth half a dozen times debating on what to say, finally realizing he had no idea and just nodded, hoping Sherlock would continue.

"John, I'm not saying that I will be able to show this much emotion with every single case I take on after this, but," Sherlock hesitated as if this was difficult for him to say, "I think it's possible for me to be a little more human if you were around to remind me to do so."

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Sherlock, I'd want nothing more to be around if you'll forgive my idiocy."

Sherlock gave a curt nod of affirmation and that was all the doctor needed. John knew it was probably a dumb idea that wouldn't be reciprocated, but he nevertheless crossed the room in two strides and put his arms around the detective. And John couldn't help but smile broadly when he felt two skinny arms encircle him.

_*chorus*_


End file.
